Standing On The Edge
by Fireheart03
Summary: What if Sherlock had actually been trying to kill himself when he jumped? If he had been why? and how would it change the story? my version of what would happen. Vulnerable!Sherlock. Trigger warning: Suicide/ Self-harm
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I won't put much here, I'll just say I hope you like reading this and that's it.**

**Trigger warning: suicide/ self-harm**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, in any format.**

Standing on the edge, I knew this was it. Take a deep breath a jump, doing what I'd wanted to do for years. To stop being the _freak_, to just get away, stop hearing the voices. The voices that never shut up, not for one second, always telling me how _worthless _I am, how I'm a _show off, _and how everyone will leave. Now that John thought it was all a lie, he would leave to, and I would be alone again with nothing but the voices, the drugs, and when things got to bad the blade. This time I'd had enough though. Moriarty had taken the last thing that mattered away from me, the one thing keeping me from plunging of the edge. Now I was falling, metaphorically and literally, towards the floor. The last thing I heard before I blacked out was three voices yelling my name. The last thing I thought was that I hadn't fallen hard enough…

19 years ago – attempt number 1

A young Sherlock stood with in the middle of the room, his sixteen years of torture showing in his slumped posture, his defeated eyes. His head bowed towards the floor, not even looking as he injected too much heroin into his blood stream, the cries of the other children at school echoing in his head, he was a _freak._

16 years ago – attempt number 2

He had sat in the bath, the tub filled with water, the blade pressed against his femoral artery. He had started to get used to the constant insults, the name calling, but they just didn't know when to stop. The mention of his own parents not wanting him, the implication that they had beat him because he deserved it, the thought that his adoptive parents had only kept him for the money. It had all been too much, driven him towards and over the edge again. So he ran the blade across his thigh, deep into his flesh until he was certain he had hit the artery, and then watched in sick fascination as his blood swirled and mixed with the water.

10 years ago – attempt number 3

Greg had gotten married five months ago. He had yet to talk to Sherlock, despite his promises, despite him saying he wouldn't leave like the others. Now he was gone though, like all the rest, and Sherlock was left alone with the voices, the pain. He'd been alright to start with, but the loneliness, and the constant torture of the voices had finally gotten to him. His mind was overcome, unable to function with the wild, loud, and painful yelling in his head. So here he was, on his own by the train tracks, waiting to throw himself under the next train just to get away. He could hear the sound of the train wheels on the tracks, getting closer, and the voices already dimmer.

2 years ago – the not quite attempt

He'd got the bottle of bleach last night. Now all he had to do was go about his normal activities so Mycroft wasn't suspicious, then drink it when he got home. The voices had started screaming again, warning him that everyone was about to leave. Molly had helped him for a few years, but nothing lasted forever. Then Mike Stamford introduced him to John, and something strange happened, the voices got quieter. So that night he didn't drink the bleach, instead he waited for his meeting with John, letting himself hope that maybe this time it would last.

Present day – four days after attempt number 4

There was an annoying beeping in the back of my head, making it throb painfully, the too bright light visible through my heavy eyelids. I tried opening my eyes but they felt like they were weighed down with cement, so heavy that I thought maybe someone actually had. When I finally got them to open a slit the room's lights blinded me completely to my surroundings, halting my deductions of where I may be. After my eyes became accustomed to the lights I quickly realized I was in a hospital room, the pale blue paint, the machines, the bed all made it obvious. The obnoxious smell all hospitals had was missing, but I didn't stop to ponder on that long. There was something, something I was forgetting, something important. Dammit I have to remember what it is, why was my mind moving so slowly, almost like that of a normal persons? I needed to figure out why I was here and then get out, as fast as possible, I hated hospitals. There were no windows in the room, no way of figuring out where I was, no window on the door, no people around to ask. How was I supposed to get out if I didn't know where I was? Then I saw it, hooked onto the bottom of my hospital bed, my notes. If I could just reach them then I could figure out why I was here, in this room, with a throbbing headache and as far as I could tell, three fractured ribs, my left kneecap dislocated, my left leg broken in three places, and my right arm broken in two places. All of which I can sum up to be a mild inconvenience, at the very least.

The voices weren't there at the moment, which confused me; normally they were there constantly in the back of my mind. They never shut up, only after… _oh, shit_. I remembered, I remember the voices screaming at me, stepping off the roof and into thin air, hoping it would end. I had failed again, I was still here. I knew as soon as someone else came into the room I would have to face the consequences, what would John think of me now? He would hate, or pity me; I wasn't sure what was worse. Either way he would leave, just like I always knew he would, leave behind the sad little detective who couldn't take the voices in his head. My head was starting to throb again, the energy it took to function at my version of normality making me slow down again. I felt so tired, I just wanted to sleep…

2 days later

When I woke up again I wasn't alone, on the blue chair next to my bed sat Mycroft. I briefly considered pretending to still be asleep before he saw me awake, quickly realizing it wouldn't work, he wasn't as stupid as normal people. I kept my breathing steady though, hoping to drag out the limited time before he realized I was awake, and when he did I would have to face the consequences. "I know you're awake Sherlock, there is no use pretending otherwise." His strangely soft voice reached my ears, lacking the usually condescending tone. I sighed deeply; wincing at the pain it caused my ribs. "Hello, Mycroft," My voice was quiet and raspy, my throat dry from days of not being able to drink orally. He passed me some water from the tray, watching me as I swallowed painfully and handed the empty cup back to him with my good arm. Placing the cup back down on the side he turned back to me, "I bet you're wondering where you are by now, you're at my house." He told me. This wasn't surprising; I'd already guessed this, considering this is where I had ended up the last two times. "What exactly happened?" I asked him, my voice already stronger than the last time I had spoken. He shook his head at me slightly, disapprovingly, "You remember jumping don't you? Yes of course you do, and the snipers on your friends," he told me, all of which I did already know, "but we both know you didn't have to actually jump." He added. I looked at him expectantly waiting for him to continue, wanting to hear the full story before we got into physiological side of my latest attempt. " Moriarty didn't expect you to actually do it either, he told everyone he wasn't Richard Brook, then disappeared again," he paused and seemed to be debating whether to tell me something, "everyone thinks your dead Sherlock." He told me, looking into my eyes for my reaction. "That's good, that's okay." I informed him nodding, glad I didn't have to worry about people abandoning me anymore. He frowned at me, "Sherlock, was it the voices again?" he asked sadly. I looked down, we both knew the answer to that question, we both knew why I'd jumped, and I wasn't going to insult his intelligence by voicing it. I hated that I was this weak, that I couldn't stop these emotions, that I was the _freak_ like they all said.

Finally Mycroft left, after informing me I would be staying with him until he was certain I wouldn't try again. I would also be dead as far as anyone else was aware, Mycroft had made all arrangements, I would be dead until he was certain I was completely mentally stable, and he was certain Moriarty wouldn't do anything. When I was certain he had gone, I started planning my escape. Physically escaping would never work; even if I got out he would find me within twenty-four hours, so I had to convince him I was better.

Psychiatrist appointment – 1- Psychiatrist number 1

"Do you want to talk about why you jumped?" he asked, stupid man, of course I didn't. I just fixed him with a deadly glare. "Look if you don't talk to me, I'll have to talk to your brother about getting you sectioned." He informed me. I cocked my brow at him, "and then I'll tell him about the fact that your only here to gain information on him." I told him icily, I honestly hated people like him, supposedly helping others, but only at the promise of helping themselves to others money.

Psychiatrist appointment – 4 - Psychiatrist number 2

"Your brother says you've found a way of self-harming again, will you tell me why you want to hurt yourself?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair. "The voices are getting loud again, it's the only way to shut them up." I answer, catching him off guard, I have never answered him before. "Do you want to tell me what the voices say?" he continues, smiling slightly. "I don't know, do you want me to tell your wife about your affair?" I ask him smirking now. His mouth opens and closes like a gold fishes, obviously in shock.

Psychiatrist appointment – 5 - Psychiatrist number 3

"So, I hear you like solving puzzles, Sherlock?" she started, making me raise my eyebrows. This was a new path; maybe it was a trick to get me to talk. I narrowed my eyes at her slightly refusing to answer, I didn't trust anyone new. "I know you don't trust me at all, but maybe we could just talk," she continued, "about anything you want." She added. She was in her mid-fifties, had three children, one committed suicide. She honestly wanted to help, no ill intentions showed in her persona, nothing I could deduce at least. "Yes, I like solving puzzles," I told her. She smiled at me slightly, and I, surprising even myself, returned it.

One year after attempt number four

I'd been alone again for three months. Mycroft had deemed me fit enough to live in a small cottage he'd bought for me, on my own. At first everything had been good, I carried on seeing Raina, my therapist, but that had all changed. Last month she had died from the cancer eating away at her, and now I was completely alone again. The scars and fresh red marks on my arms had multiplied, left unchecked by anyone who would offer help, the voices encouraging the pain, telling me I was a _freak _that deserved it, only quieting after my arms were in shreds. Soon though, Mycroft would visit, he would notice, and then everything would get confusing. He would send me to a new therapist who wouldn't help, bring me back to his big mansion where he can watch me, and I would go back to being silent and hiding knives.

Three days later

I'd been right, well mostly. When he came he noticed he gave me that sad, disappointed look, the one that showed he cared, the one that made me wish I wasn't such a disappointment. However he hadn't taken me back to his big mansion, he'd made me pack everything I needed then sent me to Molly Hooper's. He'd told me didn't need watching, I apparently needed friends. Molly had known I wasn't dead; she was the one that had been trusted with finding a replacement body. So now here I was, unpacking in the spare bedroom of Molly's apartment, hoping that maybe the voices would shut up if I talked to someone real…

**A/N: there's chapter one! Please review any feedback is welcome. Also do you want this story to be Sherlolly or Johnlock? I haven't decided and your opinion would be helpful!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: so this is chapter 2, I hope you enjoy it! Thank you all for the excellent feed back I've received and I hope you continue to enjoy the story and where I'm taking it.**

**Trigger warnings: suicide and self-harm.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any format.**

It took two days for Molly to realize I was still cutting myself, and another two for her to find the blade and get rid of it. In all of this time I still hadn't spoken to her, choosing silence over the awkward conversation that would ensue if I did speak to her. She meant a lot to me, and if I was completely honest the looks she kept throwing my way were killing me. The pity, the disappointment, the pointless reassurance I always found in her eyes, it just made me despise myself that much more. She didn't deserve this; to have to put up with me, to be disappointed, not sweet Molly Hooper who wouldn't hurt a fly. So by the time she had got home from Bart's on the fifth night, I was already packed. The taxi was already booked for eight that same night, a short note written informing Molly of my departure, but she'd gotten home early. So here I was sitting on her settee, my suitcase still by the door, taxi immediately cancelled as soon as she found out me plans.

"Why were you planning to leave Sherlock?" she asked, "and don't you dare just stay silent, I'm done with that shit." She added, her usually soft voice taking on a harsh edge. I stared into her sparkling hazel eyes, then looked away, ashamed of the disappointment I saw in them, "I'm sorry." I whispered. She didn't respond for a few minutes so eventually I lifted my eyes from the ground and looked at her, surprised to find her looking at me looking almost shocked. "What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for." She told me, all traces of harshness banished from her voice. "I'm sorry that your disappointed in me, I'm sorry you have to put up with me, I'm sorry I was so cruel to you before." I explained in a rush, trying to get it all out in one so I wouldn't have to explain myself more. "Oh Sherlock, you were only trying to defend yourself when you were being cruel, I get that." She informed me, looking directly into my eyes, "and I'm not disappointed in you, I just wish you'd try and help yourself." She added, smiling that small sweet smile that was hers and hers alone.

After the entire leaving fiasco we both decided to call it a day and go to sleep, well she went to sleep, I sat in bed obsessing over every small detail of our conversation and trying to get the voices to shut up. By the next day I had come to the conclusion that the only way to stop her from leaving would be to tell her everything, granted it might make her just leave anyway as soon as she finds out how screwed up I am, but at least I wouldn't be dragging out the wait. Either way by the end of the day she'd be gone, or I would have spilled my guts to her and she'd have stayed.

I decided the best thing to start off with would be to give her the majority of the knives I had left in the stash under my bed, as a peace offering almost, to say that I was going to at least try. When I put the small box of blades on her coffee table, well you could say she was a little shocked, especially because I'd forgotten to wash the blood of one of them. Of course she immediately disposed of them by chucking them all in the nearest skip. It took me three tries to try and make myself tell her, my mouth refusing to open and let all the secrets I'd kept for most of my life flood out. When I finally got the words out she just sat there and listened, occasionally putting an arm around my shoulder when it got too much and I started shaking. I told her about everything but my birth parents, still unwilling to share my greatest secret, she didn't even know I was adopted, let alone the horrors that had led up to me being taken from my birth parents.

When I finished we just sat in silence, her taking in the enormity of what I'd revealed, me taking in that I had just spilled most of the secrets I'd been keeping for the majority of my life. I wasn't quite sure whether I was relieved I'd put everything out in the open, or that one of the people that mattered the most to me would either stay or go, that I could stop waiting.

While we both tried to process what I had just revealed to her we sat on Molly's settee, arms wrapped around each other in comfort, a new sensation for me, but the tingles it sent down my spine weren't unpleasant, they were the exact opposite actually. Too soon she pulled away, drying her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffling slightly before looking straight at me again. "Thank you, for trusting me enough to tell me that." She said, her voice gentle but strained, obviously trying to hold back tears, I didn't want to make her cry. As the first tear started to slide down her face I wiped it away gently with my thumb, staring at her intently, crying wasn't good. "God, look at me crying when you've been through all of that, you're so much stronger than everyone thinks," she told me, smiling through her tears. I smiled back a bit then rolled up my sleeves to show her the scars, and the still red and healing marks going all the up on both sides. "Obviously not that strong Molly, you would never do something like this. Your strong, and beautiful, and smart, and brave, and everything I wish I was." I admitted, holding back tears of my own, her face still contorted in shock and concern from when I revealed my arms. They told my story just as much as my words, some vertical, mostly horizontal slashes up my arms, and then the one word, branded into my skin by a knife, a knife I had made sure went deep enough to leave a scar. The word _freak._ And then she was softly stroking my arm comfortingly, and I watched as she leaned down and kissed one of the worse scars. "Your not a freak, you're the strongest man I have ever met, you go through all of this, and yet still you don't break down. You go through all of that and yet you still see beauty. You're a miracle Sherlock Holmes," she told me, her voice strong despite her recent tears, looking directly into my soul the entire time she was speaking. You know what though? I looked right back into hers as well, and it was perfect, she was perfect, and she wasn't leaving. That's when I realized, I love her, I love Molly Hooper, and I was to caught up in protecting myself I didn't notice.

We didn't talk for the rest of the morning, just holding onto each other in comfort, both forgetting about the fact that Molly had to be in work until eventually the phone wrung, someone from work wondering where she was. She informed them she had slept in and would be there as soon as possible, the proceeding to scramble to pick up her bag and keys before rushing out of the door with an "I'll see you soon." Shouted in my direction. I smiled to myself; still amazed that everything had gone so well, still subconsciously waiting for something to go wrong.

Later that afternoon I got an unexpected text, it read: '_I didn't know my dear; I didn't realize this would happen. The game went to far, and I'm sorry, I'll be seeing you soon. –JM'_ I was slightly surprised. Up until that point I wasn't certain Moriarty was capable of feeling remorse, he had obviously not known about my history, Mycroft had made sure those records were very tightly sealed, they had only come to light due to recent events. So he was sorry, but the game was still on, that meant a new distraction from the voices, which was good. I would have replied to the text but the number was blocked, for obvious reasons, one thing was for sure though, he was going to be changing the game. He didn't want to destroy me, he wanted to destroy my image, and now that had backfired he would have to change tactics. Maybe this game would be less destructive, more fun to play along with, but when it started it would be a welcome distraction from the voices that had already started to get louder in my head.

By the time Molly got home I was already scratching at my wrists, resisting the urge to pick up the two small blades I hadn't given her, little patches of blood blooming on my shirt where I'd reopened recent wounds with the scratching. Molly didn't say anything about the blood or the scratching, she just silently disinfected and wrapped the wounds in gauze, only speaking when I had pulled my sleeves back down to cover my freshly bandaged arms. "What can I do to help you Sherlock?" she asked me, her voice holding a hint of sorrow. I looked down, unable to meet her gaze, "Just stay with me, please?" I asked, the last word sounding more desperate than I wanted it to be, a desperate plea to not be alone anymore. I sat still for a few moments, waiting for her response, when I felt her soft fingers on my chin, turning my face to hers, forcing me to like right at her. "I'm not going to leave Sherlock, I promise." She told me, her tone so sincere and honest, like a pure raindrop, free of all chemicals, untainted by a world full if harshness. I nodded at her, unable to respond to her in anyway, unable to describe her in words that would do her justice. She was my salvation now, the only thing since Raina has died that made sense, that helped. I still heard the voices in my head, but they were dimmer, drowned out by the honesty of her tone and her words. I couldn't help it, in that moment she was everything, and I leaned forward and kissed her.

The kiss wasn't passionate, it was short, and sweet, and healing, the kind of kiss that people in soppy romance novels liken to warm summers days. Her lips tasted of peppermint and strawberries, her hair smelt like mint from the shampoo I'd seen in her shower, her skin of lavender, my mind told me in the short second the kiss had lasted, all of these details mixing into an intoxicating flavor and smell that seemed to be made for me. Before that moment if you had asked me when I was last happy I would have said two years ago, when I first met John, now I would say that moment, that short moment that could've been an eternity. When I broke the kiss we just stared at each other, both waiting for the other to make the first move, both waiting for the others reaction. Eventually I broke the silence, unable to bare the thought that I might have ruined everything. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have do-" I started but she cut me off midsentence, "Don't apologize, it was nice, I liked it, but Sherlock…What does this make us?" she asked cautiously. I stared at her wide-eyed; I'd expected her response to be violent, her to tell me to leave, not for her to have liked it. "I umm, I'm not sure. Whatever you want to do or be is fine with me." I told her, "I've… I've umm, never done this before." I hesitantly admitted. I'd always been a bit scared of Molly, never sure why the voices were so loud whenever I got to close to her before, but I did now. I loved, and I was so afraid of losing her I'd automatically shut down towards her, the voices on constant alert to stop me getting to close. "Are we together?" she questioned, pulling me from my revelations. I smiled at the thought, I liked the term, _together_, it seemed permanent, stable, and good. "Yes. Yes we're together." I replied still smiling, Molly returning it with a smile of her own.

**A/N: there you go, hope you enjoyed reading it. This story is almost writing itself and I've decided to let the characters guide me, or my version of them guide me because that's how I write best. I hope you enjoy the direction I'm heading with this, which I do have some idea about! P.S John will be introduced into the story soon, so yeah there will be much angst there!**

**Reviews welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So sorry that it took so long to update, I've had so little time, but here it is, chapter 3, Enjoy!**

**Trigger warnings: suicide and self-harm.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any format.**

You could say I was hesitant in the first few weeks of our relationship, ok you could also say I was scared. I had never been in this kind of relationship before, one that involved touching, going out, and expressing your feelings. It wasn't something I was used to or comfortable with, but I was trying, I wanted to make Molly happy. I didn't think she'd leave but I saw that little sad look she got when I pulled my sleeves down around her, when I told her I was fine, and I was so scared that she would leave if I didn't let her in. By the fourth week I was so worried she'd leave that all I would do while she was out was sit at the door, waiting to hear her key in the lock. So scared that I would sit awake all night listening to her breathing through the wall, waiting for when the day would come that I'd hear the door open and she would be gone.

We had only kissed three times since that first kiss. Mostly because physical contact of any kind made me freak out, and all physical contact in my early life had been harsh, a cruel hand that left both physical and mental scars long after the owners had been banished from my life. Molly didn't understand my aversion to being touched, but she respected my wishes, only kissing me when I initiated it, hugging me and holding my hand as long as I was okay with it. The first time she had tried to hug me from behind I had gone mental on her, running away and hiding in my wardrobe as I'd done as a child, waiting for the punishment that always followed. It took her a while to convince me she wasn't going to hurt me, then another while for her to get me out of the wardrobe. She hadn't asked me about it but I saw the questions in her eyes, how she always told me what she was going to do before she did it.

It was Wednesday of the fifth week when it happened. The worry had eventually driven me to the last two blades, the sweet relief of dragging them across my skin in the privacy of the locked ensuite, watching the red swirl down the drain, mixing with the water. I had started again the week prior, hoping to find some solace in my old friend. She was already forty-five minutes late, this must have been it, the time when she would leave and not come back. In my haste I had forgotten to lock the door to my ensuite, to sure she wouldn't come back to worry about locking the door. I'd already made the first three slices when the door swung open revealing my stoic faced brother and a horrified Molly, the latter of which proceeded to snatch the blade out of my hand while I was still frozen on the spot. The crimson liquid continued to drip down my arm and onto the white porcelain of the sink, left unattended while both parties tried to get over the shock enough to take the appropriate action.

After five minutes of standing in shocked silence we had eventually come to our senses, Molly had bandaged my arms and Mycroft had made tea. We all sat around Molly's coffee table, me staring at the tea in my hands, feeling the heat leach into my skin as it cooled, all of the cups liquid remaining untouched. Inevitably the silence was broken,

"I think I'll leave you two to talk about this later," Mycroft said, gesturing to my arms, "but I did come here for a reason." He added.

Most of the time Mycroft only visited if it was completely necessary, preferring to work and interact only with his colleagues. It was no surprise that this visit was no exception, he had a purpose, I hadn't yet figured out what it was yet.

"I want you to meet John," he told me in a rush, "tell him your alive, and talk to him." He continued, his speech slightly slower.

My jaw clenched involuntarily, my nails curling in to dig into my palms; this couldn't happen, he would hate me. He would think I was weak if I told him the truth, he would think I didn't care at all if I didn't. I'd already decided it would be best for both parties if I just stayed out of Johns life for good, to not burden the world with my presence again, to just stay dead.

"No," I whispered softly in reply.

The debate about whether or not I would meet with John continued for a full half an hour, only ending when Molly threatened to invite him over if I didn't meet with him, so agreed to meet him only so that it would be on my terms. So finally Mycroft left, with my word that I would 'talk' to John, and Molly and I sat in the awkward silence that followed his departure. I could tell by her nervous glances towards my covered arms that she wanted to talk about the state she found me in, but she was obviously worried that bringing it up would make it worse. Not that I minded, she could take all the time in the world before talking to me. Right now I just wanted to sit next to her, take in the fact that she really was still here, still with me. Without thinking I reached out across the space between us and grabbed her hand tightly, afraid that if I let go she might vanish. Her eyes quickly flickered up to where our hands intertwined, her eyes wide, I hardly ever sought human contact, but right now I needed it. Her hand tightened infinitesimally around mine in a reassuring squeeze; this was all so different to me, but for once the contact made me feel safer, actually reassured me.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?" she asked me, well more told but ended on a question.

She was giving me the option, making sure it was okay, checking that I wasn't going to break if she did. I was weak and she knew it, she had to make sure everything was 'fine' with me; she couldn't even touch me without me getting flashbacks. Why would she want someone so broken?

"Hey, look at me." She told me, forcing my chin up so I had to meet her gaze, "I'll never think any less of you, because of any of this. I promise." She added smiling at me.

I returned her smile with a small one, noting how she could read me like I could read everyone.

The next morning Molly came into my room, it was early but I hadn't slept again so I was up. She frowned as soon as she saw me, sitting up, and the circles under my eyes getting darker and darker. She didn't say anything though, just came and sat at the end of my bed, studying me.

"Why did you start again?" she started, still looking at me in concern.

"I… umm, I was scared." I told her, my eyes looking everywhere in a desperate attempt to avoid her gaze.

"What were you afraid of, Sherlock?" she continued, her inquisitive gaze burning a hole in my head.

"That you'd…that you'd leave me." I admitted, my voice hovering between a whisper and a murmur.

Her deep sigh had my eyes turning towards her; she was shaking her head at me, it was almost in a sad manner but it held a sense of humor.

"For a genius you really are stupid," she informed me, "how many times do I have to tell you I'm not going anywhere for you to believe me?"

"I'm sorry." I muttered, ashamed that she thought I was stupid; being clever was the only thing I was good at.

"Don't be, just start believing." Molly whispered, curling into me and softly resting her head on my chest, slowly as if she was trying not to startle and animal.

So that's how we spent the morning, curled up in each other's arms.

4 days later

Molly had eventually forced me out of the house and into a cab, telling the driver John's new address where he lived with his girlfriend, and strict instructions not to let me out until I got there. Which was how I found myself outside Johns house, hand hovering over the door bell, attempting to delay the inevitable as long as possible. I'd already decided on the cab ride over not to tell him the truth, it would make him think I was weak, it would make him hate me. I had decided upon telling him I'd faked it like I would have if I wasn't crazy, just a trick to save their lives. He would believe it, there was nothing to suggest otherwise, and life would go on. My sleeves were tugged down as far as they would go, securely buttoned and pulled slightly over my hands by my fingers. The only evidence of my injuries was the small scar above my brow, the other much larger scars, covered by my clothes, the one on the back of my head by my hair. Taking one deep breath I straightened my spine, and then I pressed the bell.

We both stood in the doorway for a time that neither of us could recall, both staring at each other in dead silence. I took him in all over again, this person who had saved me all of those years ago. He had changed in the time I had been away, he looked older, and he had grown a moustache, but I could still see the ex-army doctor in there, the one who couldn't resist a chase.

"Hello," I managed, trying desperately to regain my composure.

"But…but you're dead." He said, the bewildered expression remaining on his face.

"I… I faked it, I had to, to save you." I told him, the lie tasting bitter in my mouth, but this was necessary.

"It's been two years," he said, his voice rising, "what could have possibly taken you ten years?"

By the end of his sentence his voice had risen to almost a shout, which was completely justified. Now though I had to think quick, I hadn't thought of an excuse for this, come on, work stupid brain. Fortunately, it was at that moment his girlfriend decided to investigate the shouting.

After she calmed John down a bit, giving me time to make up an excuse to answer his question, she invited me in. So now all three of us were in their living room, Mary, as I learned was his girl friends name, sitting next to John on the settee, and me in the armchair.

"So, are you going to explain to me, why you've been playing dead for the last two years?" John questioned, his voice was calm but I heard the undercurrent of well-hidden anger in his tone.

"I had to destroy Moriartys' web," I informed him, sounding factual and serious, just as I had intended the lie to sound.

"You could have phoned," he told me, his voice rising slightly once again.

"I couldn't, it was to risky," I told him, it was a poor excuse for a lie, but I couldn't exactly tell him Mycroft had took all phones so I couldn't call him, apparently because he wasn't sure how it would effect my mental well being.

"No, you don't get to feed me that bull crap," he told me, the anger more pronounced, "you could have called, but you didn't. Now you don't get to come here and expect everything to be the same." He continued, his voice remaining steady and angry.

I needed to get out of here, I could feel the urge, and the ever present itch becoming more pronounced.

"I'm sorry," I informed him, my voice sounding slightly hoarse, even to my own ears, "I'll go then."

I started walking towards the door, my shoulders stiff, and my steps precise. I was almost at the door, and then he grabbed my arm, pushing my sleeve up in the process, leaving my scars, all in various stages of healing, some red and still not healed, other purple and just starting to scar, and millions of bright white lined exposed. Well, shit.

**A/N: as payment for me not updating, you can ask me any question you want and I will answer, either via PM or in the next chapter. Also I feel the need to inform you that I was going to write, when he met he was talking to John on his own, 'the bewildered expression, not dissimilar to that of a startled hedgehogs, remaining on his face.' But I felt it would have ruined the atmosphere. **

**Please review! until next time!**


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